Did he hide vulnerability behind his quips? Interesting. “No. It’s not the worst thing one could be. I think it’s time you told meyoursecret, Mr. Tobias Blake.” She realized their hands still twined together but did not wish to pull away.
He nodded, his body stiff. “Yes. You’re right.” He pulled her back to the bed and gave her a little nudge until she sat on its edge. He studied her, his eyes dropping from her eyes to her lips, down the length of her throat and stopping at her chest. He reached out and brushed the fabric of her robe at her collarbone. “A man’s banyan.”
“My brother’s. I stole it from him years ago.”
“Wool. Good quality. The color was nice once upon a time, I assume.” He tilted his head to the side. “Hm. Wonder where it was produced. Somewhere in Scotland, presumably.”
She nodded. “I suppose. It was faded already when I made it my own.”
“Why did you make it your own?”
“It looked warm.”
“No better reason.”
“You’re supposed to tell me about your clothes, not wax rhapsodic about mine.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’d rather wax rhapsodic about the lady inside them, frankly.”
“You’re stalling.”
“I am. No more.” He sat beside her on the bed. “My father owns one of the most successful cotton mills in England. My grandfather is an earl. My own position in society is a sort of limbo. Am I trade or aristocracy?”
“A bit of both,” she suggested.
“Yes.” He paused, steepling his fingers together. “I always admired my father. He made his own fortune, defined his own life. I wanted to do that, too. But when I was young, no more than thirteen or fourteen, he took me to the factory and told me I would inherit it all. I told him I didn’t want it, that I’d make my own way as he had.”
Tobias paused so long Maggie feared he’d completed his story.
“And?” she prompted, “How did he react?”
“He laughed. When I assured him I did not joke, he grew grave, angry. He’d not built his empire only to hand it off to a stranger. Then he spoke of how he’d train me up to take his place.” Tobias laughed, a bitter, hollow sound.
“You do not sound amused.”
“It’s only that my father hates the aristocracy that left him poor and with few options for survival, everything entailed to his eldest brother.”
She could sympathize.
“And yet”—Tobias broke into laughter again—“and yet there he was, all but entailing all his belongings to me, his eldest son.”
“It is ironic.”
“You understand. Good.”
“What I do not understand is how this story explains your, um, unique sartorial choices.”
“Ah, yes, I did have a point, didn’t I?” He curled his lips between his teeth and darted a sidelong glance at her. “It’s just … I’ve never told anyone about why I do it. You’re the first.”
The room grew heavy with the intensity of his revelation.
“Hm.” She swung her leg sideways to nudge his leg. “Then get to it.” As she’d hoped, her tartness cut the tension.
He broke into a bright, true, smile. “Very well, Pocket Princess.” He shifted, pulled his legs on top of the bed and crossed them in front of him. He braced his elbows on his knees and leaned his chin into his hands. He looked boyish and mischievous and more charming than she could stand in the flickering candlelight.
She mimicked his movement. Pulling her legs onto the bed and crossing them, she faced him and mirrored his pose.
He grinned wider. “I decided several years ago, when it became clear my father truly meant to train me up as heir to everything I never asked for, to become just the man he despised—a peacock, a foolish layabout, a fop ingratiating himself with the upper crust of the upper crust.”
